The Scandalous Life of a True Lady

by Barbara Metzger

  Then she stepped behind Miss Althorp, who hunched over her easel, hiding her work. The Frenchwoman, the real Parisian, was muttering French blasphemies as her brush dripped a muddy streak and she had to start over. Miss Hanson, the banker’s convenient, had more paint on her apron than on her paper; Miss Mary Connors, the actress who shared a love of the theater and a flat in Kensington with Sir John Foley, laughed and admitted she’d only painted back drops before. Her sketch looked like it.

  Simone sipped her lemonade and studied the manor, then she studied the nearby flower gardens, the stream, the beginning of the forest that gave Griffin Woods its name. Then she looked at her blank paper again and knew what she wanted to paint.

  She made a hasty mental sketch, then quickly began adding shape and color to the real page. She used a dry brush on top, to keep the bright hues from bleeding into each other and then a thinner brush for detail work. She wondered if Harry would like it or, like Sandaree’s Lord James, he’d be disappointed she could not measure up to Gorham’s mistress. Harry certainly surpassed Gorham and Lord James, in any contest she could think of.

  The devil take him, she felt heated again, despite the wide straw bonnet that shielded her from the sun. And her mouth was dry. Sarah was not in sight, and the others had wandered over to watch the lawn games, so Simone simply walked around the circle of painters again. This time she could see Miss Althorp’s painting, and was surprised. The landscape’s sky was now overcast, while the afternoon was a clear one. How odd.

  Claire stood to stretch too, smiling contentedly. Her painting must be perfect, Simone thought in despair. Then Claire started screaming like a fish wife, losing all semblance of polite manners. She snatched up Miss Althorp’s painting and shook it under the blonde-haired poetess’s nose.

  “This is my painting, you cheating bitch! I did it last month. I know my own work.” She waved the painting for Simone and the others to see. “I wished to catch the heaviness in the air just before a rain storm. Gorham and I had to run back to the house with it. See? There’s a smudge on the corner. And look, here is her painting still on the easel, as ugly as she is with her long nose and her fancy airs. You stole my work, you sneak. And your poetry reeks too!”

  “Mon dieu,” the Frenchwoman exclaimed.

  Simone whispered another blasphemy, but to herself. The vicar’s daughter? The one who held literary salons? Simone looked, and sure enough, another painting was on the easel, this one not half as well executed. But the sun was shining in it, and the flowers were the same ones in bloom today.

  “I did it in my bedroom,” Miss Althorp claimed.

  “You found it, more like,” Claire screeched. “Lud knows what you do in your bedroom with that chinless viscount of yours.”

  The other lady shrieked right back. “You cheat at everything else. And you don’t need blunt like the rest of us do.”

  “Hah! Your viscount has deep pockets.”

  “And he needs to marry, for the succession, a lady with a dowry. He’s too honorable to keep a mistress while he goes courting this Season, unlike Gorham.”

  “How dare you pick on my lord when you stole my painting!”

  “You called my lover chinless!”

  “And witless to take up with a pretentious, priggish female like you.”

  Miss Althorp grabbed for the disputed drawing. Claire swiped at the blonde’s bonnet. Miss Althorp kicked grass on Claire’s skirts, and Claire picked up the jug of dirty water filled with used paint brushes. She would have tossed it but Simone held her arm. “Ladies, the gentlemen are returning.”

  That stopped the argument before it turned into a melee among mistresses. Simone felt as if she were back in the classroom, with the petulant, spoiled children of her employers. She was happier to see Harry than she thought possible and ran to meet him and the other men on foot before they got to the easels.

  He raised a dark eyebrow, but followed her lead and folded her into a hug, kissing the top of her head. “What, were you worried about me, sweetheart?”

  She was worried she’d have to referee dueling paint brushes at twenty paces. “Of course, darling. Did you find the dog?”

  Now he raised two eyebrows at the endearment, but said, “Yes, we started at the farm where he’d been spotted, and the poor beast was still there. Gorham and Caldwell had their rifles on him, but we wanted to keep our distance, not jeopardizing the horses. There’s no telling what a rabid animal will do.”

  Gorham took up the story. “The cur was slobbering at the mouth, all right, skinny and trembling, unsteady on its feet. Sick. We knew we had to put it out of its misery before it bit another dog, or one of my tenants’ children.”

  “Then he wagged his tail,” Harry added.

  Gorham shook his head. “Who would have thought Harry Harmon had such a soft heart? We had the beast cornered, and damn if Harry didn’t dismount and approach the cur, right in the line of fire.”

  “You didn’t!” Simone cried, knowing that was just what he would do.

  “I thought I saw something, and I was right.”

  “A fish hook, by damn,” Sir Chauncey Phipps said. “The mongrel’s mouth was all swollen. Not rabid a’tall, just starving and in pain.”

  Another of the riders said, “Harry proved it to us by offering the dog water. A rabid animal won’t touch it, you know.”

  Sir Chauncey pretended to shudder. “Water? I won’t drink the stuff either.”

  Simone hadn’t recovered from the thought of Harry on foot, facing a deadly threat. “So you put it down humanely?”

  He brushed at his sleeve, where she now saw black hair. “Not exactly.”

  “He dragged the blasted creature back to my stable, dash it!” Gorham took a lemonade from a servant who appeared with a tray. “Harry insisted, and carried it in front of him on that brute he rides.”

  “Fidus did not mind,” Harry said, “nor did I. Jem and the head groom are doctoring the dog now, after we removed the fish hook so he could eat. He appears to be some kind of sheepdog, but he’s all matted and filthy. There’s no telling how long he was out there on his own. I was hoping you’d look in on him, since you had such success cleaning up Miss White.”

  “Of course. Um, he doesn’t bite, does he?”

  Gorham snorted. “I wouldn’t have let the gudgeon bring it home if it was vicious. Claire doesn’t like dogs, do you, dearest?” he called over to where his mistress was still standing.

  “Calmed right down, it did, as if it knew Harry was a friend,” Sir Chauncey added. “He’s got the touch, old Harry does, doesn’t he?”

  Harry winked at Simone. She blushed, thinking of his touch, knowing that he was thinking of it too.

  She quickly agreed to go with him right away. “I’m done with my painting. We all are.” She said it loudly enough for the women to understand the argument and the competition were both over. “But you cannot see it, or any of them, to keep the judging fair.” She went back to the easels and took hers, Claire’s, the three others’, and the one Miss Althorp had actually done. She left Claire clutching the rainstorm painting, looking like thunderclouds herself.

  Simone handed the paintings to Sarah, Sandaree, and the servants, keeping them separate in case they needed more drying time. “Give them to the butler, please. I understand they are to be displayed in the drawing room before dinner.” She only prayed the ladies displayed better behavior.

  *

  Simone spent the rest of the afternoon trying to rid the dog of knots, burrs, and vermin while Harry held him and talked softly. He kept stroking the dog’s head and back while she worked, getting hair and drool all over him. Simone still wore her painting apron, so her clothes were safe, but Metlock was going to be furious, she warned Harry.

  He did not care, too concerned with the animal’s condition after Simone cut away enough of the matted mess to show its bare ribs. “We can’t feed him too much at once, you know. And only broth and a bit of boiled beef at first.” Except he was breaking
one of the tea sandwiches into tiny bits for the dog to swallow.

  “I think the dog values your attention more than food right now. He must know you saved his life. What shall you name him?”

  “A better question is what I am going to do with him. Gorham won’t keep him. He’ll likely shut down the manor house after the party, when Claire leaves. I’m thinking the animal might make an excellent gift for my godson.”

  “I thought the boy was only an infant.”

  “You can see how gentle he is.”

  Simone saw how big the dog still was, without the mass of hair. “Maybe you should ask your sister-in-law first.”

  “I’m not worried about Amanda. It’s Verity, Rex’s mastiff, who might not take to a strange animal in the house.”

  “Why don’t you keep him, then?”

  Because he never knew who he was going to be, or where. Because a dog could give away any disguise he might put on. Because he had enough responsibilities in his damned life. “No.”

  “Mr. Black.”

  “You know someone who’d want him?”

  “No, that is what you should call him,” Simone said, ignoring his refusal. “Miss White can learn to live with him. So can Mrs. Judd.”

  “Blackie? Black boy?” The dog’s ears perked up. “I never had a dog of my own, you know.” The dog rolled over for his belly to be scratched, moaning with joy.

  “You do now.”

  And now Simone was jealous.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Simone took a second glass of sherry before dinner that night, to settle her nerves. Three would not be enough, not during the exhibition of the watercolors. She also held tightly onto Harry’s hand at the side of the drawing room where all the house guests were gathered for the judging. She was used to such familiarity in public now. Goodness, hand-holding was nothing compared to the blatantly sexual displays of affection, or lust, she had seen at this party. Lord Gorham had his arm around Claire’s shoulder, and Lord Caldwell had his hand in Maura Doyle’s bodice. Before dinner? Simone turned away. Hand-holding was sufficient for her needs right now.

  She did need Harry’s support, whether it was merely for show or not.

  Six paintings were framed and displayed on gilt stands along the mantelpiece in the drawing room, with six glass bowls in front of them. Each of the fourteen remaining gentlemen, whether his inamorata had entered or not, was given a single new guinea to place in the bowl in front of his favorite entry. The three paintings with the highest amount of coins would win points for their artists, who also got to keep the money. Some of the men were making a great show of judging, raising their quizzing glasses to inspect the artwork, viewing the collection from different angles, talking about brush strokes, the painter’s “eye,” lyricism, and perspective.

  Hogwash, Simone decided, from self-important peacocks trying to show better taste and more intelligence than the next fellow. Connoisseurs, hah! The banker likely bought whatever masterpieces his man of business recommended as good investments, and Sir Chauncey Phipps, who had already had three glasses of sherry and heaven knew what else, admitted he preferred nudes to houses.

  In addition, everyone knew that only four of the six paintings were truly in contention, since two were muddy blurs that looked like landslides instead of landscapes. Everyone, even the jug-bitten Sir Chauncey and the surly Lord James Danforth, disinterested because his harem-bred mistress had not bothered to enter, had to know which was best. They also had to recognize it as Claire’s. Not only was that one a perfect rendering of Griffin Woods Manor, but it was painted with skill and affection. Besides, watercolors exactly like it except for seasonal differences, the sky and the flowers, hung in nearly every bedchamber.

  Six gentlemen placed their coins in that bowl.

  The two unfortunately brown entries each received one coin, from the artists’ loyal beaus even though no one was supposed to know who painted which.

  That left six votes, six coins, and three paintings: Simone’s, Elizabeth Althorp’s unfinished original, and the Frenchwoman’s. Madame Lecroix had chosen to depict the manor house in the distance, with the gardens in the forefront as splashes of color in a more modern style than Claire’s painting. Joseph Gollup, her shipping magnate lover, put his coin there, and so did Mr. Anthony of the East India Company because, he said, the flowers reminded him of home. Miss Althorp’s viscount almost placed his money there too, until she hissed at him to drop it in the correct bowl, hers.

  Three gentlemen had still not cast their votes. Simone clutched Harry’s hand so tightly he couldn’t leave to study the paintings or place his coin. The other men were standing in front of the mantel so he could barely see to choose.

  “I have to go vote, my love.”

  She let go of his hand before he had to pry her fingers loose. “I won’t tell you which picture is mine, because I want you to pick your favorite because it is the best, not out of misplaced loyalty or fear of reprisal if you do not.”

  “I couldn’t lie,” was all he said as he joined the other men studying the paintings. Then he started laughing, and Simone wished the floor would open up and swallow her, or a servant would come by with another glass of sherry. She’d made a fool out of herself. Worse, her poor efforts had made a joke out of Harry, who was making the best of things. She heard the clink of a coin, but she couldn’t look. Then she heard two others. The voting was done. She studied the view out the window.

  Harry touched her on the shoulder, then kissed her hand when she turned. He smiled and held out a bowl with three coins.

  “Three? I got three votes?” Simone did a hasty calculation. She had second place! She threw her arms around Harry’s neck and kissed him, right there for everyone to see. Metlock would be angry she’d ruined the creases of his starched cravat, but Simone did not care. “You voted for me?”

  “I voted for my favorite, in all honesty. I knew it had to be yours, because who else had the daring, the imagination, the wit to paint a griffin in Gorham’s garden, lion’s tail and eagle’s head and all? You did get the house in, too, so Claire couldn’t disqualify you, although I’d wager she tried. You are brilliant, Noma.”

  So she kissed him again, to applause from their audience.

  Claire was miffed again, that she, the winner, was not receiving the accolades. Worse, she’d only won six of the guineas when she deserved them all. Lord Gorham kept patting her hand and telling her she was the best artist, with the best technique, the finest eye. And he needed another picture of the manor for his own bedroom.

  “He wants this one,” Harry whispered to Simone, “but I told him he’d have to fight me for it.”

  Miss Althorp’s viscount was also aggravated. He’d gotten wind of her attempted swindle and took that as a poor reflection on his own taste. Conscious of his elevated station, he’d picked the least scandalous mistress he could find, the most educated and upright, when she wasn’t lying in his bed, of course. Now her artistic light had dimmed, and his own honor was damaged by her heinous actions. They were discussing the situation rationally, he thought, as mature adults of intelligence and manners. Then she called him a twit.

  “And Claire was right, you are a cold-hearted, chinless clunch.” She kicked him in the shin for good measure, before stomping off to pack.

  The viscount looked more embarrassed by the scene she’d caused than affronted by her insults. He also appeared more relieved than upset. He went up to the mantel, retrieved his coin, and handed it to Simone.

  That didn’t make her the winner, but it did make Claire angrier. “When are you going to perform for us, anyway, Miss Royale? Have you decided on your entertainment?”

  Simone tried to be diplomatic. “I would not dare sing, not after your thrilling concert. I beg you for a few more days to decide.”

  “Hmph. You are running out of time. And I am running out of patience with your airs and graces. You pretend to be so mannerly butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, but I don’t trust you. You, Miss
Royale, who appeared out of nowhere to snabble a top-of-the-trees protector, are not what you seem.”

  Gorham stepped in and led Claire away. “Come, my pet, announce your surprise for tonight.”

  Simone mangled Harry’s sleeve. “She knows.”

  “No, she is guessing. Don’t worry. You are the most enchanting female here. Five rakes have asked my intentions, to see if they have a chance. I expect to hear from the chinless viscount before the night is over.”

  Simone didn’t care about other libertines or other indecent proposals. She only wanted to know Harry’s intentions, too. But Claire was clapping her hands to silence the guests to hear her surprise.

  Simone’s last surprise had turned her world upside down. She could not imagine Claire’s announcement to be anything heartwarming either, unless Gorham’s mistress was going to tell them she was withdrawing from the competition. The chances of that happening were as slim as Simone receiving an honorable offer from anyone.

  “I called you down early for the judging and because I have planned a special dinner this evening, before we view the performances of the ladies who are going to display their talents tonight.” She shot Simone a nasty look. “Since it is such a lovely evening, we are dining alfresco, in a tent set up near the stables. It is a short walk, but the ladies might wish a warmer wrap.”

  They might wish boots and heavier skirts, too. Claire received a lot of scowls herself. She was wearing a red woolen gown with long sleeves and a high collar that would have appeared modest on anyone with a lesser bosom, or less form-fitting seams. She looked like a ripe strawberry. She looked warm.

  The other women were in silk and lace and as little of both as possible. They wore silk slippers that would be ruined walking through grass, face paint that would not show in the dark, jewels that already felt cold on their necks. They grumbled on their way to find shawls and spencers to cover what they had spent hours adorning.

  Simone did not see Sandaree in the crowd, but she decided to bring down an extra wrap in case the Indian girl needed more warmth than Sir James Danforth seemed to have provided. Sarah handed Simone her new brown velvet cape, and excitedly told her the servants were permitted to watch tonight, those not waiting on tables or helping in the kitchens. A real treat for the visiting maids and valets, she went on, and she was going to wear her own new shawl, but she’d bring one for Miss Sandaree, weren’t her clothes peculiar?, and did Miss Royale think she needed her bonnet?